


The Patrons of Ireland

by Asu_Shu_Namir



Category: 5th Century CE RPF, Celtic Mythology, Christian Tradition Lore & Folklore, Irish Mythology
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Christianization of Ireland, Gen, Roman Catholicism, Saints, Tuatha Dé Danann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asu_Shu_Namir/pseuds/Asu_Shu_Namir
Summary: A Christian missionary and a Celtic goddess meet on a windswept plain. The deal they negotiate there is for the soul of the nation they both call home. Centuries later, they will both be known as patrons of Ireland.Or; how the goddess Brigid came to be known as St. Brigid of Kildare.
Kudos: 4





	The Patrons of Ireland

The fog is thick on the plains of Kildare, and the wind tears violently at the grass and shrubs. Thunder rumbles in the distance. There is a storm coming. 

A gray-bearded man stands at the entrance of a low earthen shelter, a staff of ash wood in his hand. He pounds on the earth once, twice, and a woman emerges from within. Her graying hair is wild and her feet are bare, but once outside, she stands straight and looks the man in the eye.

“Patrick,” she says, and her voice is filled with loathing.

The man nods curtly. “Brigid.”

She eyes him silently. After a long moment, he speaks again.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, gesturing to her shelter. Inside, a rough woolen blanket is laid over the ground before the last embers of a dying fire. “Times must be… difficult. For you.”

She curls her lip. “I will not have you patronize me. It is not long since I was the wife of a king.”

“And yet the people have forgotten your husband. And soon they will forget you. Things change, Brigid, it is only natural.”

“It is natural for things to change over time. Slowly. Your people coming in and sweeping the country in a few decades is not what I would call  _ natural.” _

He shrugs. “What is done is done. My people, as you say, grow more and more each year. And yours grow fewer.”

She crosses her arms. “Is that why you’re here? To gloat?”

“No.” He places his staff on the ground and approaches her. She looks at him, wary, one foot poised to walk back into her hut. “I think you and I can make a deal.”

“A deal.”

“Yes.” He sighs. “Many in Ireland have accepted the faith I bring. But many still cling to the old ways. I understand that you could… help. To convince them.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Brigid, you know as well as I do that you are losing.” She gives a derisive snort and tosses her head, but does not walk away. “Within a century at most this will be a Christian nation. I will be long dead by then, but to one such as yourself, that period is a blink of an eye. A goddess only stops living when her people stop believing.”

Brigid glares at him. The wind catches a corner of her cloak, and it blows back to reveal a thin, haggard frame. She sighs. “Three conditions.”

Patrick smiles at her. Her frown deepens.

“First. I continue to be honored. Your religion holds no place for goddesses, I know that well enough, but I would like to be… a demi-goddess, or a miracle worker, or whatever it is you people hold holy.”

“A saint.”

“That.”

He shakes his head. “Saints are real people, holy people, who lived and died in service of the Lord.”

“And I, standing here before you, I am not real? I, the protector goddess of my nation, I am not holy?”

Patrick sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Second. The people continue to celebrate me on my holy day.”

“The first day of spring. I’m familiar.” He thinks for a moment. “Ignatius of Antioch might complain, but… I suppose that could be arranged.”

“Good.”

“And third?”

“I continue to be a protectress of my nation.”

He nods, chuckling a bit. “We have a good many protector saints. You’d fit right in.”

“Do not joke with me.” She stares into him, flames dancing in her eyes. “The people of Ireland have honored myself and my family for thousands of years.  _ They  _ are the ones who sustain me,  _ you  _ are merely a passing nuisance. If this agreement requires me to turn my back on my people, this will be the last you will ever see of me.”

“I do not joke, Brigid.” His voice is quiet and solemn. The fire in her eyes dies down. “They are my people, too. Though I was not born here, I have adopted this land as my own.”

“That may well be. But I  _ was  _ born here, I was born of the people and the land and the connection between them, I am the rocks beneath their feet and the wind in their hair and the songs they sing on winter nights. And mark my words, Patrick, no matter how many you convert, you will never take Ireland unless you take me, too.”

“It is settled, then.” The man picks up his staff. “God be with you, St. Brigid of Kildare.”

He turns and walks away, and she watches him until he disappears into the fog.


End file.
